Fire and Ice
by Kida Greenleaf
Summary: Legolas' role in 'The Hobbit,' now w/ Chapter 5: War is here!
1. Defying the King

I know nearly everyone feels Legolas and Thranduil don't quite see eye to eye. That's how I portray them. Not in an abusive relationship, just a testy one. This takes place just before the Battle of Five Armies from "The Hobbit."  
  
"It is our duty to aid the Lakemen," Thranduil said. "In our times of need, they have proven to be noble allies. We shall perform likewise.  
  
Legolas exhaled angrily. "You have never been truly welcoming towards the Men of Esgaroth, Father, in times of need or otherwise. Now that they have gained access to the Dragon Horde, you will rally at their side? Where is the nobility in that?"  
  
The room was suddenly silent, though the tension was bitter and thick. The captains shifted uncomfortably, glances darting back and forth between the King and the Prince. Outside a hawk cried. The sun was high, brightly burning white light down upon the treetops, speckling the empire below the Canopy. In time, Thranduil spoke.  
  
"Is it your wish, then, to leave the Men to tend to their own wounds?"  
  
"That is not what I said."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Of course not. We must help them. There is no other choice but that. But do you honestly think the dwarves are going to be entirely willing to deal out their gold to unfamiliar Men, let alone the very Elves that held them captive?"  
  
Thranduil smiled grimly. "An opportunity for ransom to be paid."  
  
Legolas cast down his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "I have disagreed with your policies before, Father, but now I truly see folly. I feel that this conflict will eventually come to blows. But I do not share your love of riches, and if I did—"  
  
"Of course a Prince may harbor no love of wealth, he who has been born into it and raised by its benefits throughout his life", Thranduil shot back, raising the volume in his voice a notch. "I saw this kingdom rise to its greatness, Legolas. I watched my Father lay the first stones of our hall, I saw the artisans carve the Tengwar runes into the eaves. And in time I saw him fall on the battlefield, pierced through the throat by an arrow of Angmar. But I did not allow all that he created to die with him."  
  
"No," Legolas said. Laced in his voice was icy venom terrible to hear. "But since you have allowed our forest empire to fall to ruin. From Greenwood the Great, land where the Tree Shepherds walked in the Elder Days, it has become Mirkwood: where yrch still trespass unheeded, where shadows swallow up green shoots. Still the Spiders occasionally drink Elven blood, and they spin their strangling webs about our kingdom, slowly netting us in, multiplying and growing stronger and hungrier. And to the south a new threat has arisen." He paused, his eyes piercing, his face sad. Those who heard his next words found them to be profoundly prophetic. He said: "Gold may rust and rot away, and likewise times may change. Kingdoms rise and fall. Some that are forgotten are stirred up again and blossom anew. Others are forever lost and naught may be done for them. Our kindred to the west have all but disappeared from Middle-Earth. Soon we too shall be called away to Eressëa, and those who stay shall fade away in time. When we are denied, so shall we be doomed."  
  
"Say what you will," said Thranduil, "But we shall stay in our realm so long as it is true.  
  
"Our way is dying," Legolas whispered. Then he fell silent.  
  
He thinks and speaks like an Elf of Imladris, thought Thranduil. Lyrical, sad, longing for things he shall never know. Admittedly, Thranduil was afraid as well. Deathly afraid. He felt the ebbing of their age flow out in each breeze that flitted through the boughs, and in each leaf that fell from its place on the towering trees. It was a forbidden chant whispered in the magic water of the Forest River. At night it was seen in the pinpricks of stars, in the distant green glow of Spider eyes and clicking mandibles. And with the passing of the Dragon, another large section was lost. Change was smeared across every landscape.  
  
Thranduil concealed his fear, almost entirely out of pride, yet partly out of genuine love. He said in a steady tone: "Tomorrow we shall make for Erebor. To live in the shadows of the future is fruitless, Legolas. This is where our duty rests now."  
  
Legolas looked at his father for a moment. "Must I come as well?"  
  
"Aye, indeed you must." A hint of defiance could be seen in his son's expression. Thranduil said: "That is a command. Your kingdom has need of you."  
  
"Yes, Father." His voice was dead, and the same hawk cried out. 


	2. Nimwen of Esgaroth

This chapter features some of "The Song of Amroth and Nimrodel" taken from LOTR.  
  
DISCLAIMER: if you're reading this and you think I have completely made up Legolas, Thranduil and the world of Middle-earth, then you are one sad, laughable wanker. I mean, seriously, what the bloody fock are you doing looking up Lord of the Rings fanfiction if you bloody think some sodding highschool chick like me thought it up? *hurls Gimli's axe at dense folk*  
  
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to everyone who so diligently reviewed my previous smut. Having read and thought over your criticism, I've adjusted this chapter a bit. Mostly I agree with you all. Oh yes…and it seems that gold doesn't rot. Blargh. Well, I'm keeping that line because I like it. When I wrote it, I was thinking about the last part of Beowulf when the dragon's treasure turns out to be rotten and worthless. You may notice that I right about the Rangers in a way that makes them sound like gypsies. I've always sort of thought of them as being the gypsies of Middle-earth: nomadic, mysterious, mystical and powerful. Right, well here it is, and I'm writing more right now so if you like it, you should like what's coming next.  
  
Chapter 2- Nimwen of Esgaroth  
  
Legolas had been to Laketown many times before in his long life and, of course, nearly each instance was against the wishes of his father. He had lost track of how many times he had snuck out, or claimed to have been on a deer hunt with his friends or the royal guard. His companions always kept his secret diligently, a sign of their friendship to which he was greatly indebted. They would go to the market place and trade with the people there, for Laketown was the greatest trade center of northern Middle-earth. The best days were those when the Rangers passed through. They brought with them relics of dwarvish silver, rare so far north of Moria, or books of lore and Quenya poetry from the south. In turn, all the men were eager to see what the Elves had to offer: glasses blown like opening flowers, keen- bladed hunting knives, gems like stars set in rings or draped on mithril pendants. Everyone was friendly, or at least interesting. The Rangers would stop their caravans here and at night, a great bonfire was lit in the town center. Here the Dunedain women would dance around the fire, their dark hair whipping in the warm night air. The pounding drums, the raspy harps and the low flutes of their music rose up with the licking flames, and Legolas would stare astounded at the new and different sort of magic he found in Men.  
  
Coming to Laketown against his will and at the time of war was very different. Legolas had to constantly mask his features so his father would not guess the familiarity at all he saw. One man, Brago from the tavern, waved to him amiably, but Legolas had to look over his head and pretend he had not seen his old friend. Old indeed: since last he saw the man, Brago seemed to have gone silver at the temples. How long had it been since last he had had the opportunity to be back among these people? Guilt washed over him as from the corner of his eye he saw Brago's smile falter.  
  
Much had changed, and drastically so after the attack of the dragon. The day it happened, Legolas had caught the smell of the burning village upon the wind long before the border scouts came back bearing the news. For many days after, the sky was gray dismal over the land that was Esgaroth. He had glimpsed a few ashes flit by in the breeze deep within his father's realm, so far had the wind blown them. Now the town still smelled of burnt wood. Nearly half of the little houses were blackened, or even so burnt that roofs opened up like lidless boxes. A few homes had completely burned to the ground.  
  
"It is good we came."  
  
His father's voice had startled him. Riding beside Legolas' black horse upon his own gray steed, Thranduil's face was grimmer than usual, his mouth set in a hard line. They were at the front gate of Laketown at the end of the long bridge. The Elves waited for their king's signal to dismount. Thranduil's eyes scanned the remnants of a once-thriving town like a soldier looking over the field of a battle ended but recently. He had seen wreckage and death many times before. His son had not.  
  
Legolas lifted his hood off of his head and let the wind touch his face and glide through his hair. It still smelled of smoke. He said nothing.  
  
"Take Arion and Gelmir with you and seek out their leader, the man named Bard. When you find him, invite him to meet with me. Tell him we offer all the service that we can."  
  
Legolas smiled and said, "Yes, Father." He always admired the King's sense of duty and honor. They disagreed often and were as different as day and night, even in appearance (Thranduil's hair was pale gold, but Legolas had taken more after his mother Fimbrethil's dark locks, combined with those of his father into a foresty brown). Yet the love between the King of Mirkwood and his only son was strong as iron. Besides that, Legolas genuinely admired his father as a role model. Here, in the thick of the aftermath, Thranduil showed no sign of disheartenment or doubt. Legolas wished he could do the same.  
  
Arion, captain of the royal guard, and Gelmir, a famed scout, rode up to thei prince, having heard Thranduil say their names. Both had been his friends for most of his life, though each was much older than he. Gelmir had outlived Arion, though, and could recall his days as part of Orophin's cavalry during the Last Alliance. The three rode into the gate, and the rest of the elvish host followed.  
  
Though devastated by the tear-stained faces he kept glimpsing, Legolas' heart was soothed by the thought of helping the people. When the company of Wood-Elves entered Esgaroth bearing food and supplies, cries of joy and relief were heard. The forest folk handed out all they had born. Bread and several deer carcasses were brought, as well as blankets and other necessities. The greatest gift the Elves had to offer, though, was their own hands. They set to work, the Men of Laketown by their side, mending the roofless homes and rebuilding what they could save.  
  
Elvish healing was needed as well, perhaps even more so. Many had been killed in Smaug's assault, yet countless more were injured. Those who suffered from smoke inhalation needed little more than a swallow of miruvor. The more serious injuries were left entirely to the Elves.  
  
Legolas and his two companions went up to several of the Men and asked where they could find the man named Bard. None knew, but they did offer physical descriptions. It helped little. With the smoke still hanging low, intermingling with the mist off the lake, everyone looked the same. Unable to find Bard, the three Elves went to the makeshift hospital.  
  
Children and adults alike had taken serious blows. Many of those who had not reached the refugee boats in time had horrendous burns. Others had been battered by falling timber. A little girl screamed when Legolas knelt before her cot and gently touched her crushed arm. Then the child burst into tears. He lifted her small body and cradled her against his chest, whispering an Elven song into her ear. It was the only thing he could think to do. He remembered how his father had held him when he was very young after he had broken his leg after falling from a tree.  
  
Soon the child's sobs turned into shuddering hiccups. At last she turned her face up to him and nodded in a dutiful way. Moving with more caution and care than he had ever in his life, Legolas took her hurt arm into his hand and slowly set the bone back in place. She yelped once and bit her lip. He stopped, concern gleaming in his eyes, but continued only when she nodded again. Feeling up her bruised and bloody forearm, he could tell the bone was back in the right place. A human woman came to his side and said she could take it from there, but Legolas insisted upon setting the little girl's arm in a splint himself.  
  
As he did so, she felt her eyes upon him. He looked up at her and asked in Westron: "What's your name, little one?"  
  
"Nimwen," the child whispered. She stared at him hard again. "Who are you?"  
  
"I am Legolas."  
  
"Are you from Mirkwood, too?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Is it scary there?" She sat back, expectantly.  
  
He paused, and raised an eyebrow. "Scary? No, I wouldn't say that. It is very old and dark, and there are things inside of which to be wary, but there's nothing frightening."  
  
Nimwen lifted her chin and smiled proudly. "Elves are never afraid. Neither am I."  
  
Legolas laughed. "You are indeed brave, Nimwen. But Elves are indeed afraid of things. Just…not the dark."  
  
"What are you afraid of?" Nimwen asked, and took his hand in her two small ones, turning it over and over to see all sides of it. She flattened her palm against his. Her little tan fingers barely reached halfway up his long pale ones. She laughed, dropped his hand, and looked up into Legolas' eyes expectantly.  
  
He gazed at her for a moment, and then said, "War. All Elves fear war."  
  
"Like Men sometimes do?"  
  
"Yes, like Men. Like dwarves. No good people like war."  
  
"But Legolath," Nimwen said with a lisp from a missing tooth, cocking her head to the side, "I thought Elves hated dwarves?"  
  
"I do not think any Elf truly hates anything besides the evil left over from the days of the Last Alliance. Have you heard about those stories?"  
  
"Of course! I'm a Dunadan, Legolas. My daddy tells them to me all the time." He should have guessed from her raven hair back in messy braids, and her gray eyes. "Were you there? I know Elves are very old. Did you go to battle?"  
  
"That was a few years before my time. My father fought in those wars though. My grandfather, Orophin, was killed there." Nimwen's eyes went wide. Legolas grinned. "The still sing about it, the way, even after taking an arrow through the throat, my grandfather still stood and fought until at last the orcs cut him down."  
  
"Was your Daddy very sad?"  
  
Legolas looked away in thought. "To tell the truth, I do not know. He never speaks of his father. Perhaps the memories are too painful for him." Nimwen whimpered slightly. She had moved her arm in a disagreeable way. "Do not move yet, Nimwen. Come now, you should get some sleep."  
  
"Will you thing to me, Legolas?" She smiled, beguilingly adorable. He laughed.  
  
"Yes, I will. I'll tell you the tale of Nimrodel, for it is like to the name Nimwen."  
  
"Oh, is it sad?"  
  
He smiled. "Most of our stories are."  
  
Nimwen didn't mind. She knew never to detain elvish singing. "Go on."  
  
"An Elven-maid there was of old,  
  
A shining star by day:  
  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
  
And her shoes of silver-grey…" 


	3. Bard of Laketown

AUTHOR NOTES: Bard is a cool little man, and he makes his appearance in this chapter. Sweet. And by the way, Daddy's about to get pissed.  
  
Chapter 3- Bard of Laketown  
  
Nimwen fell asleep almost immediately. Resting in the delicate limbo that Elves could never fully understand, her young face seemed serene and oblivious to the carnage that had erupted a few days beforehand. Legolas stood over her for a long moment, feeling himself slip into one of his own standing dreams. He shook himself awake, and left Nimwen to sleep.  
  
Lifting up the flap from the hospital tent, Legolas' eyes dilated in the bright sun. It was noontime, but he didn't feel hungry. Quite the opposite. He quickly moved to the side as two Elves and two Men carried in a man who was screaming at the top of his lungs. A piece of burning lumber had fallen onto its leg and severed it just above the knee. It had begun to gangrene. Men, unlike Elves, could not heal themselves with time. How different they were. Legolas hoped Nimwen would not be awoken by the man's cries.  
  
Arion followed behind Legolas. His hands were streaked with human blood, and his face looked sickly pale. The prince unconsciously reached out a hand to steady his friend. Arion shook his head as though in a dream, and the two went to one of the wells to wash the blood off.  
  
"There was a woman there," Arion said in a low whisper, looking at his hands as the water rinsed over them, "and I think she was bleeding inside. I couldn't think of what to do to help her. I am so used to healing our own kind." It was true that Arion was known for his skills as a healer. But he had only fixed the ailments of Sylvan Elves only and knew little of the Outside. His face showed great strain as he went on. "She had horrible burns all up her arms, too. She took my hands and wouldn't let go until her eyes clouded over and she died. They had to pry her fingers off of me."  
  
Legolas swallowed. It was a horrible tale. Not knowing what else to do, he rested his hand on his dearest friend's back. Their thoughts mingled, exchanging comfort and regret in the unspoken manner of the Elves, mending the wounds as language could not. In response, Arion quickly dashed away the tears that had filled his eyes and straightened up. "Did you find Bard, my Lord?"  
  
"No," Legolas sighed. "I should greatly like to meet him, though. A human with such archery skill! Have you heard? He hit Smaug in the heart from many yards away, a moving target with only a small, unarmored patch of skin on his underbelly. It is unheard of for human skill."  
  
Arion has smiled. "They are writing songs about him now, making them up as they rebuild the houses. Their spirits, for the most part, have not been weakened. That is well, and the key to their survival." He turned to Legolas, his smile taking a wry look, and said: "Your father still does not realize that you've been here many times without him?"  
  
Legolas laughed. "If he has figured it out, then he masks it extremely well, I think. No, he has not guessed. I saw Brago in the square when we arrived this morning. He recognized me, but I had to pretend I had not seen him in order to not be caught. I should go see him alone now."  
  
Arion's hands were clean. He dried them on the hem of his tunic and said, "How long has it been since last you came to Esgaroth?"  
  
"Last time was with you."  
  
"Are you sure? That was at least ten years ago."  
  
"I know. I realized it when I saw Brago. His hair has changed color already. Like trees, they are, losing brilliance before they rest. But they don't come back to life, like trees. It would save much suffering."  
  
High up in the sky, an Eagle was circling. Legolas and Arion heard its cry at the same moment. Looking up, they saw the mighty wingspan circling high above.  
  
"I wonder what he's doing?" Arion said.  
  
"He's probably a scout from one of the tribes. Perhaps he is reporting upon the wreckage."  
  
The prince and the warrior turned from the well to seek out King Thranduil.  
  
Indeed, the Elven King had found Bard before his son or his companions could. When Legolas and Arion entered the tent set up for the Wood-Elves, the two leaders were deep in council. They stopped when the two young Elves entered, and rose to their feet.  
  
"Lord Bard, this is my son and heir-apparent, Legolas," Thranduil said, gesturing to the prince. Legolas, having not expected to meet a dignitary on such short notice, thought he must look a mess as he bowed slightly to the Man. Bard did not seem to mind. Indeed, he was dressed simply, too, like a commoner in hunting garb. Upon his head was a cap with an Eagle feather. His face was noble, and his hair and beard where dark as night. He had broad shoulders and strong-looking arms: an archer indeed.  
  
Arion introduced himself in turn, and with a smile at Legolas, left the tent to leave the nobles to their work. Legolas wished he could go with him. "No," he thought, "I wish to be gone from this place. Death hangs in the air. I want to be back among the trees of our home."  
  
"We have been discussing what to do in regard to the Dwarven question," Thranduil said simply, resuming his seat at the small table that had been set up. Legolas found a chair and joined them. Spread across the table was a great map of the northeastern region of civilized Middle-earth. It showed everything from the western edge of the Wood-Elf kingdom to the easternmost part of the Iron Hills. A circle was drawn in charcoal around the Lonely Mountain.  
  
"With the Worm dead and gone, the Dwarves must have accessed the Dragon Horde by now," Bard mused, gazing at the circled picture. "From what I have heard, there remains more treasures than can be counted. Gold and mithril heaped in mounds, they say, and many gems." He paused and smiled up at the father and son. "More than enough to go around."  
  
"Yes. But we are dealing with Dwarves, the one breed of creature known to love gold more then lifeblood, and to harbor the greatest greed," Thranduil said. "They will not be easily swayed."  
  
"Have you told Lord Bard about our dealings with them?" Legolas asked innocently. Thranduil grimaced. "No, then. Well, sir, here is where things become more complicated. Several days ago we were having one of our autumnal feasts within the inner regions of our land. Three times we were intruded upon, yet three times we managed to outsmart the intruders. We saw that they were Dwarves, at least fourteen of them."  
  
"Go on," Bard said. Legolas thought the smile upon the Man's face was one of genuine amusement. He unconsciously he grinned and continued.  
  
"You see, Lord, we are not known to be the friendliest of people to Outsiders."  
  
"You have proved that wrong by coming here at our hour of need."  
  
"Ah, but it has been long since we have come to your land," Thranduil said. "This is my fault, mainly. We have few dealings with Outsiders, even amongst our own kin from Imladris or Lothlorien."  
  
"Few? I remember well ten years ago when a group of your people came. The Rangers had come through for the fall. They were quite amiable and friendly. I would not guess them to be reclusive folk."  
  
Legolas' heart stopped as Bard's eyes fell upon him in a new way.  
  
"So I have seen you before, my prince! Were you not among that group?" 


	4. The Last Son of the Eldar

AUTHOR'S NOTES: The complete version of Chapter 4. Enjoy.  
  
Chapter 4- The Last Son of the Eldar  
  
Legolas heart leapt into his throat. He stammered, "I- I think you must be mistaken, my Lord."  
  
"No, indeed. It was you! I was young then, but I remember. Five of you came in the middle of the night, and you stayed with the Rangers and played music for us."  
  
Legolas stole a glance at his father out of the corner of his eye. Thranduil was glaring at him in an extremely venomous way. Bard seemed to notice this. He looked back and forth between the King going pale with rage and the prince wearily with his head in his hand—and laughed.  
  
"I seem to have said something out of place. Let us think nothing of it. We should return to our plan."  
  
Thranduil let out a long breath and slowly wrenched his gaze away from Legolas. In turn, the young Elf swallowed and gazed at the map again.  
  
"We should send an envoy to Erebor made up of both our peoples," the Elven-King said. Fury was still laced in his voice. "A group of Men and of Elves. We will make all necessary efforts to peaceably come to an agreement. If we are still met with resistance after, we'll resort to more…forceful methods." Legolas flinched.  
  
"That will be grievous. I fear that if we must fight them, there will be great losses for all of us. They will have the upper hand first, being able to hit us from above upon the mountain, but they'll be outnumbered. In the end we will probably succeed, but not without loss," said Bard.  
  
"That is a risk we will have to take," said Thranduil.  
  
"Is it?" Legolas asked. His father's eyes turned on him again. How could he be so stupid to be defiant now after his cover had been blown? He was going to get an earful later. "I understand the need of the people of Laketown to have reparations, but not us. We have done nothing to help the Dwarves. They have done everything."  
  
"I do not expect you to understand, Legolas. You are the youngest in our entire kingdom. You have not the wisdom nor the experience to make such decisions as of yet." Legolas felt a wash of color fall across his face. He looked away to hide it.  
  
"Very well," Bard said. He was becoming uncomfortable with the testiness between the Elves. "I say we each select fifteen of our people and tomorrow at dawn we will ride to the Lonely Mountain and seek a compromise."  
  
"Splendid," Thranduil grinned. The three rose and Bard shook hands with the royalty of Mirkwood. He paused when he came face to face with Legolas.  
  
"You are the youngest of your kind?"  
  
"They say I am. There are none in our kingdom born after me as of yet," Legolas said softly.  
  
Bard smiled. "I am glad you came back."  
  
Legolas stiffened. The Man turned and left the tent. Almost immediately a heavy hand came down upon his shoulder.  
  
"Tell me everything, son. Or I will make you regret it."  
  
* * *  
  
Night had fallen with the moon glowing high up in the zenith of the sky by the time Legolas finished his tale. Throughout, his father's expression had gone through several changes: anger, genuine and cold; outrage, like a voiceless din humming through the tent; fear, too, and much of it. Legolas was his only child. And he was slipping through his grasp. It was a fear that Legolas guessed at, but could never fully understand.  
  
A stunned silence now fell between them. Thranduil paced back and forth slowly, glaring hard at the ground, his hands steepled together. His footfalls were hard. Legolas, unsure of what else to do, sat in silence. Through a loose tent flap he could see a piece of the night sky. Blue stars burned against the navy backdrop.  
  
"Tell me, Legolas, do you ever pause to consider the consequences of your actions?" The younger Elf looked up. "Answer truthfully. If you are to be the future king of our people, I must be able to assess your logic. Thus far, you are failing the test miserably."  
  
Legolas felt a wave of shame. For a fleeting moment, he thought tears would come to his eyes, but he swallowed his grief down. Thranduil stood over him, his eyes seeming to be dark, glittering jewels beneath the silver circlet of enameled leaves. He was a tall and imposing figure, and though Legolas was of equal stature and majesty in the eyes of others, he now felt almost naked under the gaze.  
  
"I saw no harm in it, Father."  
  
"How could you? That is my fault. I believed I had taught you well enough about the dangers of the Outside: the deceits of greedy Dwarves, the folly of unsubstantial Men. Yet you are drawn to them. You, born into privilege, have cursed yourself to always seek what you cannot have. I would know why."  
  
"Perhaps I do not see these faults you name. I cannot condemn an entire race or people merely based upon the actions of their ancestors. They might say the same of us."  
  
"What would they say?" Legolas looked at Thranduil, visibly bewildered. "No, you tell me. You seem to have far more experience with being amongst Men."  
  
"Father, don't be this way."  
  
Thranduil's eyes flashed. Legolas immediately regretted his words. How many times had he regretted his words that day?  
  
"I will make this clear," the Elven King said in a terrible voice, advancing upon Legolas like an executioner. "From this day forth, you are not to leave the palace without an attendant appointed by me." Legolas' mouth fell open. "Had you been born in happier times, then my lenience would be more substantial. But the shadows left behind by Sauron's malice have grown in strength and number. Need I remind you of what happened to your friends long ago? Are not the spiders evidence of the left over evil of Ungoliant?"  
  
Legolas nodded solemly. He used to often sleep up in the lofty boughs of the great trees of his father's kingdom, but in the recent years such acts were deemed dangerous and he was forbidden. The Spiders had grown in number.  
  
Their strangling webs surrounded the unguarded regions of the Elven kingdom, as though they were slowly netting them in. The night watch was doubled and constituted of many of the best archers for fear of stray Spiders. They could be seen sometimes at night as a glowing cluster of eyes far off in the distance, so faint that even Elven eyes could scarcely make them out. Far off though they seemed, the Spiders were still deadly as they occasionally drank of Elven blood. He thought bitterly of those friends who had been lost to the Spiders: Gilorion, Thalion, Adrolas. Three caught off guard, ambushed by a horde of at least fifteen gargantuan beasts. Slaughtered alive. And he and Arion had found them, or what was left: pale, thin bodies with their eyes torn out, silver threads strangling their necks, resting in vast pools of blood like dark mirrors.  
  
It was no wonder that his Father was now more protective. The woods had become more sinister. Goblins from the mountains crept in at the western borders. Travellers were not stopped and questioned: they were turned away. Suddenly, Legolas' mind flew to his memory of the Dunedain women dancing round the fire, the pulsing drums and the silver stars. Did he envy these mortals who were dangerous and free?  
  
With a defiance he never knew he had, Legolas flew out of his chair and looked his father hard in the eye. "I will not take orders from you as if I were a child of fifty! What have I done to give my judgment a marred name? Has aught ill befallen me, or anyone else, from my sneaking away to Esgaroth? What serious injuries have I ever recived in my life? I took my first spider when I was 120 years old, Father. That is unheard of, and you know it. Everyone in our kingdom besides you regards me as the greatest marksman Mirkwood has ever borne. I can take care of myself, alone in the wild and alone amongst Outsiders. One day, you will have to accept this." He paused, breathing hard. "May the Valar grant you the grace to do so." 


	5. The Battle of Five Armies

AUTHOR NOTES: It took a ridiculously long time to update this baby. I've been focusing most of my attention on 'Leaf Storm' (my Legolas/Eowyn fic), especially since more and more people have taken an interest in it after having seen TTT. Bless them, little moviegoers. This story is nearly complete, I suppose. I'm thinking of adding two more chapters, and then maybe two more at the beginning. Or not. Tell me what you think. I went a little gore-crazy. Wahoo!  
  
Chapter V - The Battle of Five Armies  
  
Bard had never discussed philosophy with an Elf-prince before that uneasy evening before the confontation. They had unsuccessfully parlayed with the Dwarves twice. Armies were mustering at Esgaroth. Elves went on trips to and from Mirkwood, returning with weapons that looked more ancient than the hills themselves, yet still lethal and strong. And he, Bard, was trying to distract himself. He was, shamefully, afraid. Not for himself so much-he feared for the outcome of his little town. He feared for the lives that must be lost.  
  
Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, was in a bitter quarrel with his father. *Not the first, I'd wager,* Bard thought. And, of course, he was young. The youngest. His fear was vague-a whisper, a pale shadow cast at dawn-but it was real as well. They had found each other hours ago, and now the conversation by firelight, alone in an Elvish pavilion, was becoming even more interesting. It seemed they had spanned all of Middle-earth's history in their talk. Now the conversation was reaching new climaxes  
  
"You were the ones to accept our superiority: we did not make that rule. Such laws are beyond our concern, or even or philosophies. I truly do *not* think that Elves are more superior to Men, yet I also do not think Men are more superior to Elves. That is all."  
  
"Yet you believe Elves-and Men-are more superior to Dwarves?"  
  
Legolas paused, as though searching Bard's eyes for the answer to his own question. "Yes," he answered steadily. "Yes, I do."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Legolas smiled wryly and closed his eyes, tilting his dark head back as he mused on his own prejudices. "They do not have the grace to be content with the world about them. So they dig, deep down, always tunneling into the deep parts of the earth, giving nothing back for all they upset. They search and search until they find a gem or a gold vein-a glimmer to catch their eye."  
  
"Do not the Elves gaze often at the stars of night?"  
  
Legolas opened his eyes and smiled gently. "Indeed, we do, but we do not feel the need to seek out *those* gems. We are content to only gaze upon them. Time cannot cause their gleam to fade."  
  
"One may be thus content, when one has eternity to gaze."  
  
There was a cold silence. Bard had the sinking feeling that he had just offended the Elven-Prince, but he did not regret it. For the little he knew of Elves, he had always thought them to be just in all their actions. But here was blind discrimination-the mark of a simple people-of Men! But Legolas was young: they had said to him, too, the youngest. The Man looked at the youthful Elf's face and felt some guilt for his words, for in that expression was genuine sadness and a longing that, he knew, would never be fulfilled.  
  
"You have a just argument," Legolas said in an even tone. "Eternity is eternity." And swiftly he cast shining eyes upon the Man at his side and spoke with greater passion than Bard had ever heard. "Yet do not tell me that, although Mortal Men will never see it, they do not *feel* it. You can grasp eternity, in a fleeting form. I have seen it in your people."  
  
"You do a great service to Men, that you compare them to the Rangers. We are not all like them." Bard remembered when, ten years ago, he had seen this same Elf among the gray-cloaked wanderers who had come to trade. He had seen the Elven eyes light up with wonder.  
  
"I have seen and been amongst more types of Men than the Dunedain alone, Lord Bard. That you should have guessed based upon my father's anger."  
  
"Indeed?" Bard raised a skeptic's brow.  
  
"The Man, Brago, who works in the tavern: do you know him?" Legolas spoke with sudden urgency, his hands making quick movements.  
  
"Not well, but enough to say hello."  
  
"He is not of the Dunedain, yet *there* is a Man who is noble and goodhearted, and who seeks peace and loves his life, his kin, and all Good People. That, my friend, is Eternity. *That* is seizing the infinite."  
  
Bard stared in disbelief at the beautiful, starlit face before him. He seemed so young, this prince. He could pass for a lad of no more than twenty among humans-not that any Elf could every pass as a mortal. Yet these words-they came up from the earth, down from the sky-he spoke with a voice that was eerie and true. Bard sighed and nodded, dumbfounded by the intensity of the moment.  
  
"I must to my father now, Lord Bard. May we fight together tomorrow- if it comes to that."  
  
"If it comes, we shall. Side by side, brothers in arms."  
  
Destiny, as usual, had other plans. They never fought together, for battle sundered them: and the battle that ensued was something neither of them could have dreamt of. Terror came thundering down from the Misty Mountains, riding on the backs of Wargs.  
  
* * *  
  
Drumbeats-the Men of Laketown mustered together, armed with limping Men and skinny boys unsteadily clutching swords. Injuries from Smaug's assault were set aside. Grievances over previous loss of life were ignored. They found a now focal point. They linked themselves with the Elven and Dwarven hosts and prayed for the best. Young and old gazed up in fear as Wargriders flew down the mountain slopes, howling at the gray sky.  
  
The Elves were tall and steely-eyed, grasping the long handles of leaf-green banners, their coats of mail slightly tarnished by age, yet still brilliant as the pale stars of sunset.  
  
There wasn't much noise in those last seconds before the battle struck-the war whoops of the goblins were far off yet. The three allied armies stood together, silent, quivering, and then the sky split with war.  
  
* * *  
  
"Where is my son?" Thranduil rose up, his arms tense, his eyes suddenly wild with fear. "Where is Legolas?" These eyes scanned the fray with fierce intensity. "I did not give him leave to go. Where has he gone?"  
  
Gelmir came to the Elven-King's side swiftly, and after a curt and somewhat meek nod he said, "I saw him depart with Arion and the archers of the first volley. He wished to lend his skill to the legion."  
  
Thranduil reeled on Gelmir. "You saw this? You spoke not of it to me?"  
  
The Elf-Captain stammered, "I-I did not think it wrong, my Lord. The Prince is an archer of formid-"  
  
"My son has never been in battle before!" And then Thranduil turned to his War Marshal, Atavodain, and said, almost shouting, "Order a retreat immediately. I do not care what it takes. Retreat back to the cliff face *now*."  
  
"But my Lord, the goblins have the upper hand. If we pull back now, the casualties-"  
  
"Do as I say!" Thranduil yelled. His heart was thundering in his chest, his mind flying back to events that suddenly seemed but recently-the day when his queen had been taken from him, then further back-a day when he had stood on the battlefield and watched, helplessly, as a black-feathered Mordor arrow slammed into his father's throat.  
  
* * *  
  
"Legolas!" Arion called, his voice carrying over the screams and bellows of the mountain goblins. "They're calling a retreat!" But then Arion's eyes snapped wide with fear. Legolas could not hear him. Legolas could not move. He was surrounded on all sides by goblins wielding jagged blades. Arion saw the lightning-quick flashes of the Prince's white knives, he saw a few goblins fall, he saw black blood flying up-yet it was clear that Legolas was fiercely outnumbered. The goblins knew it too.  
  
As if following some silent agreement, the circle of goblins let out a crackling howl and converged at once. They seized Legolas' arms and wrenched the knife from his left hand. His right hand he kept locked in a vice-like grip around the hilt, kicking and clawing at anything that came within his reach, bringing his one weapon up and down into anything soft. Then there was the white-hot agony of blade against skin as a goblin dagger was slashed across his right wrist. The knife clattered to the ground, slick with its master's blood.  
  
He gasped in anguish as evil hands grabbed onto his limbs and forced down. The bleeding hand he freed for a moment: it shot up toward the sky, a silhouetted beacon, touching the clean air for a last instant. Then he hit the earth hard, struggled briefly, and fell still again when a metal-plated foot careened with his temple. Blackness. And then light, painful light, blinding, burning. Where was Arion? Where was his father? Hadn't anyone seen him go under? It was like drowning. He tasted his own blood in his mouth, metallic and slick. He felt his skin break under claw-like goblin fingers. He heard the hoots and hollers of triumph.  
  
*They will mourn me, this, a trophy for the mountain goblins, a feast to be eaten whilst still warm. What will my father say?*  
  
He stared up, eyes blank, goblin faces grinning and cackling above him. Yet beyond them he saw the pale glow of the sky, gray and lovely. He would die by daylight.  
  
One took his hair in its fist and yanked him upward. He fell forward onto all fours like an injured wolf, his body in shock, gasping, convulsing in pain. He could not bring himself to look at the ragged, bloody mess that was his right wrist.  
  
Another yank up: he was on his knees, his head snapped back in a goblin's hand, blinking up at the sky. He realized, strangely, that the world was not silent. The din of battle had not lessened. He now heard new sounds in the noise: there were Elvish cries laced in the screams. His people were dying. Elf-blood was soaking into the earth, Elf-blood was reddening the mountain streams, Elf-blood was slicking the rocky terrain.  
  
They laughed in their coarse language, the cruel, wild-eyed goblins, and then the one holding the back of his neck growled deep in the back of its throat. Something moved in the corner of Legolas' eye-a scimitar being raised. There was a cool feeling on his neck-the blade was rested on his jugular vein.  
  
He stared up in disbelief at his executioner who stared back with an unreadable expression-primeval, yet not entirely remorseless. Elf and Orc were one in that instant. *And in the next instant,* he said silently, *the blade will slide across my neck and it will be over. Then I'll be dead.* The goblin seemed to nod in agreement.  
  
The air whistled and suddenly an arrow was embedded in the goblin's chest. It made a gurgling sound and fell back, its fallen scimitar barely missing the tender flesh of Legolas' neck. He was free! The sky was thick with Elven arrows. He rose up cautiously, dazed and trembling with fear, and saw through the crowd-Arion.  
  
"Legolas!" his friend called, lowering his bow, elated. Legolas sprinted to him, gasping for air, staring unbelieving at his friend's face.  
  
"They-I didn't realize-"  
  
"This is your first battle, Legolas. You have done well. It is not wrong to rely on the aid of your friends and allies. Now come. We have been ordered to retreat." Arion gazed up the cliff face to the promontory where King Thranduil and his war captains were gathered. "I'm going back to get the rest of the first volley."  
  
"I'll come with you."  
  
"No. Not after what just happened. I'll see you up at the promontory."  
  
Legolas caught the fabric of Arion's tunic and looked him in the eye. "Do you swear?"  
  
Arion smiled. "Yes. Now go." Arion glanced up. "There! Follow Silindë. He's got a clear path to the top. And get that fixed." He nodded at Legolas' wrist. "I'll see you in a moment." Then Arion turned and plunged back into the fray.  
  
For a moment Legolas stood there, his mouth not quite closed, watching as Arion disappeared into the sea of warriors. Then he blinked away his anxiety, trusting to his friend's abilities, and began to scale the cliff. He made it only a quarter of the way up when something inside of him snapped. Coldness overtook him. Many years later, he was never able to name the sense that had made him pause. He stopped dead still and whipped his head around.  
  
"Arion!"  
  
Legolas saw the orc. Arion did not. His back was turned-he was lifting something with another Elf-an injured warrior with a mangled leg-a human warrior. He was distracted. He did not see the goblin looming up behind him. He did not notice the shadow cast by its raised scimitar. He did not hear the prince cry. His voice was lost to the wind.  
  
Legolas was running. He was leaping over stones and fallen bodies, goblins, Men, Dwarves, Elves-he was flying. The wind rushed by his ears as he ran, heady with the scent of blood. Closer-so close! He had never sprinted so fast in his life. The air in his lungs was fire. But then maybe- just maybe-he could find his voice to scream.  
  
"Arion!"  
  
And his friend turned and looked at him quizzically, not more than six feet away, then closer still in the last moment. Time passed just enough to take in a breath. In the next moment the scimitar came down and Legolas' face was sprayed with Arion's blood.  
  
The world stopped.  
  
Arion's eyes were confused-lost. Disoriented. Not in pain, not afraid, just-lost. There was a sickening crack as the goblin wrenched its weapon out of the back of Arion's skull. He fell forward, onto his knees, kneeling before his prince, aghast at the tableau of his own swift death.  
  
Legolas stood rooted in horror, unable to breathe. And then his legs gave way and with a wretched sob he caught his friend's shoulders and cradled his bleeding form. Gently, ever so gently, he turned Arion's face to see-to see-  
  
The eyes were open-but he was gone.  
  
Legolas doubled over and broke down. He did not care who saw. He did not care that he was weaponless, distracted and vulnerable. He did not care whether they won or lost this battle. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted silence. He wanted movement Arion's veins. He wanted to give in to the gnawing ache that had started in his heart-the thing the elders called Fading, the one thing, besides slaying, that might kill an Elf. *Take me with you. Take me with you.*  
  
"Prince Legolas!" Silindë's voice broke. "Ar-Arion.." the rushed intake of breath, collection, self-calming, "My prince, come away-" The light touch of hands on his shoulders. "Prince Legolas, come away. He has departed."  
  
Legolas knew this more truly than his cowering form may have admitted. Still, Silindë finally had to reach down and lift him up by the armpits. Then he fought.  
  
"No," he gasped. He had no air to speak.  
  
"Come away," Silindë pleaded. "You are not safe here!" Desperation. Compassion. Legolas was numb to these things. Silindë was gentle with him, folding his arms around his prince, softly pulling him from Arion. The dead Elf fell back, limp without Legolas' grasp. He would forever stare up at the grayness of the sky. It was a fate Legolas had glimpsed minutes before. Death under the gray, by dim daylight, beneath clouds, upon blood. Death was smeared over the valley. Death rained down from the sky.  
  
"Your father," Silindë said, almost whispering. "Look, Prince Legolas!" He moved him a little to see. "See? He wants you at his side."  
  
"I cannot go to him," Legolas said blankly.  
  
Silindë felt himself becoming frantic. Arrows were flying. Most of the Elves had retreated back to the cliff face as they had been ordered. Soon they would be alone in a torrent of goblins speckled with Men and Dwarves like tiny archipelagos. Sooner than the prince thought, they might be joining Arion in Mandos.  
  
*No*, Silindë said to himself with silent conviction. *No more death. Not today.* Half-leading, half-dragging, he took Legolas' arm and began to lead him away.  
  
"I can walk," the prince whispered venomously after they'd gone three steps.  
  
Silindë released his elbow. "Yes, my lord. Of course you can."  
  
Legolas was staring at the ground. "Of course I can.." and he trailed off, gazing back at Arion's body which lay in a pool of blood that reflected the cloudy sky. "Of course." Light and darkness blurred. Pain and joy were one. Suddenly, Legolas couldn't take it anymore. He stopped and stared up the cliff face. He thought he could see his father-yes! There he was! Thranduil came to the front of the cliff, silver mail shining beneath the deep green of his cloak. Father and son locked eyes.  
  
When he was very little, his father had told him: "Make eye contact with the enemy before the enemy strikes. Even if he prevails over you, you will have shown yourself. You will have kept your honor. No Elf dies a victim who hath looked Death in the eye."  
  
But Arion had not. Legolas tore his eyes away from those of his father and king and looked back for what, he hoped, was the last time. And then he made eye contact with a goblin clad in crude armor, wielding a rusted bow.  
  
For a split second his sight blackened out of agony. The shot was point-blank into his right shoulder: pure luck had saved him from being pierced in the heart or even his lung, as the orc was unskilled with its bow. Still, the force of the blow was so strong that Legolas felt himself thrown back. Someone cried out for him-he had not the voice to cry. Was it Silindë? Was it his father? He hit the cliff wall hard. His shoulder was aflame, a slicing pain, screaming with anguish. The arrowhead throbbed in his wound as its poison spread. He felt the hot outpouring of his blood down his side. Agony was blinding his sight, shocking his limbs into uselessness. In horror, he realized that he had been rendered completely vulnerable.  
  
A blow ripped across his back, above his quiver. Suddenly his skin there was cold, hit by wind through his torn tunic-then more icy fire: a scimitar had sliced him from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Thus all the agony converged and he felt himself slipping away-  
  
"Legolas!" Silindë, he thought. That must be Silindë. There was a clang of steel on steel as the Elf-warrior fended off the goblins that meant to take Legolas down.  
  
*Silindë, Silindë, go on,* he thought. *This. Silindë .this is something greater than you and I, and it is calling to me. Go on.*  
  
"Legolas, no!"  
  
That was a voice deep and strong, a majestic tone tainted by-was it sadness? Despair. That was his father. *And you, Adar. You are strong and wise. Let the young and foolish pass. He will bring you no more grief by slipping away at night.*  
  
"No!"  
  
Pain, blood in his throat rising, and then, mercifully, silence.  
  
-Fin-  
  
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